Do
you know of any "potiron" terms or expressions... or would you like to
help translate the quote (below)? Perhaps you have a pumpkin story to share?
Anyone care to discuss the differences between a potiron and "une citrouille"?
Feel free to voice your "potiron pensées" in the comments box, for all to
see.

The last time Mr. Delhomme (senior) stopped by, he
looked over to the picnic table... and sighed. "Well, what are you waiting
for?"

I stared back at the giant pumpkin that he had given my mom weeks
ago. (Or did she swipe it from Monsieur's potiron* patch, just below?) No,
the citrouille* was too heavy, even for her, to swipe, or to lift, or to drag
undeterred.

"Elle va le peindre,"* I announced. "Nature morte,"* I
offered, explaining Mom's "still life" plans for one imposing
potiron."Bah!" Monsieur's replied. His eyes scanned the countryside, where
real country women once resided -- before the artists and writers decamped. In
their funny minds, vegetables were no longer edibles -- vegetables were
vedettes!*

As for Monsieur's question "What are you waiting for," I
pondered that one for few weeks more. Meantime, the old pumpkin, cut from the
earth's cord, remained on that table, but a somber gourd...

And then
my Grandmother Audrey didn't answer her phone over at a Salt Lake City nursing home. Instead, another woman's voice declared:

"The number
you have dialed has been disconnected".

* * *

A pumpkin in
my throat, I dialed up my Uncle Rusty and soon, in the background, that
familiar family atmosphere whistled and hummed. What are you all
doing?

"Aunt Betty is making pies.""Pies?""Yep. Nine
pies!""NINE PIES?" I pictured my aunt Betty at the kitchen stove. I
remembered her long hair that, as a child, I loved to brush and those delicate
lace-making fingers, from which she also produced handmade peluches.*

"What kind of pies?" I asked, easing into the atmosphere of
yesteryear."Oh, pumpkin, banana, cherry...""So you are all getting
together... with Grandma?..."That's when the voice of reassurance sounded.
"I think I'll swing by [the nursing home] and steal her for the day... if
she'll quit fighting with Aunt Reta."

"Fighting? Fighting!" I giggled.
"She's fighting!!!" I imagined our occasionally ornery Audrey, grand-mère
extraordinaire. She may be fighting with Aunt Reta, but she is also taking
her daughter's, advice: to squeak! "It is the squeaky wheel that gets the
grease!" Grandma had shared Aunt Reta's tip during our last conversation. That
explains the disconnected telephone. (All that squeaking got Grandma transferred
to a more suitable room!)

And so, on a very light note, I hung up the
phone... but not before Uncle Rusty offered to send instructions for pumpkin
pie. He seemed to read my thoughts ("Who me, make pumpkin pie?) and his
humble answer, 'We just follow the instructions on the can" was all the
encouragement needed.

Soon things picked up round here. "Still life"
started to spark and that old, cold pumpkin found its way into the warm
hearth. Fueled by memories of family holidays with a feisty grand-mère,* and
aunts and uncles who show they still care--I marched out to the picnic table,
picked up that potiron and transformed the Gallic gourd into a piece of the
precious past: spiced up and sweetened for the present moment, at
last.

* * *PS: In addition to soup and some pumpkin seed snacks, I
made the pumpkin pie! Monsieur Delhomme's son is coming for dinner and I just
can't wait for word to get back to old Delhomme that the "artful" pumpkin
(after lending itself to a still life painting... then a story) went on to
become a tart (as if artists and writers didn't have a country woman's
smarts!).

* * *I once wrote a story about a French turkey and
shared a few of the ingredients in my mother-in-law's cognac riddled "farce"
recipe (!). Thanks for checking out the chapter "Dinde" in my book (which doubles as a great stocking stuffer, hint hint).

Ongoing support from readers like you helps me to continue doing what I love most: sharing vocabulary and cultural insights via these personal stories from France. Your contribution is vivement apprécié! Donating via PayPal is easy when you use the links below. Merci infiniment! Kristi♥ Send $10♥ Send $25♥Send the amount of your choice

"Bonjour, Kristin, I have enjoyed your blog now for a great number of years, watching your children grow up, your moves from house to house, enjoying your stories and photos and your development as a writer. It's way past time for me to say MERCI with a donation to your blog...which I've done today. Bien amicalement!"--Gabrielle

Do you know of any terms, expressions, or examples for
today's word? Would you like to help translate the above quote? Thank you for
sharing your "sanglot" savoir-faire, here, in the comments box.

Books!: "The Day We
Danced in Underpants" illustrated by Catherine Stock. An invitation to picnic
with the King of France sends a young boy, his papa, two big dogs, and three
wild aunts dancing their way across the French countryside.

Ever wake up "plein de
bonnes intentions*?" Your heart is full and you might just save the world...
with your patience, your lessons learned, and that little bit of resilience
that you have painstakingly re-affirmed? ...only to crawl into bed, at the
end of the day, depleted, defeated, nerve-endings astray?

Such was last
night.

As for the bundle of sensitivity, located somewhere beneath
stilled sanglots* and a rapid heartbeat... I do not know whether it was those capricious Christmas consumers at Carrefour,* who were ahead of the rush by
three weeks or more, or whether it was the evening meal, when I looked across the
table to my children...growing, growing, growing still!

These days I
feel like Chicken Little, running hither and thither with my shopping cart,
trying to catch the sentimental sky, before childhood or Christmas pass me
by.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~References~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~plein de bonnes
intentions = full of good intentions; sanglot (m) = sob; Carrefour = the name of a mega
supermarket chain in France

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~In Gifts and More~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Michelin
Guesthouses in FranceThe development of guesthouses in France has been an
important upward trend in recent years, as tourists want a good alternative
to hotels. Most are in quiet locations - manor houses, chateaux or chalets
and offer 3-5 bedrooms. They offer personally chosen decor and a friendly
atmosphere to make a customer feel at home. Michelin's brand new Guesthouses
in France is the ultimate guide to the country's most beautiful
guesthouses.

Ongoing support from readers like you helps me to continue doing what I love most: sharing vocabulary and cultural insights via these personal stories from France. Your contribution is vivement apprécié! Donating via PayPal is easy when you use the links below. Merci infiniment! Kristi♥ Send $10♥ Send $25♥Send the amount of your choice

"Bonjour, Kristin, I have enjoyed your blog now for a great number of years, watching your children grow up, your moves from house to house, enjoying your stories and photos and your development as a writer. It's way past time for me to say MERCI with a donation to your blog...which I've done today. Bien amicalement!"--Gabrielle

On Day One we peddled our wines (meeting with an importer) at the Piccadilly Market in London...

~~~~~~~~~~~~ Language Learning ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Oxford Take Off
In French: (CD-ROM): Follow an integrating course including activities and
dialogues with native speakers so you can feel confident in day-to-day
conversation.

foire
(fwar) noun, feminine : fair : trade fair

[from the Latin
"feriae" = holidays)

Note: this seems to be one case where a look-alike
verb does *not* reflect the same meaning as the noun ("foirer" means "to have
the runs"! Then again, some might argue that processed foire food is the
missing link between the noun and the verb!)

Update!: turns out there
*is* a second meaning to "foire":

A related Latin noun, "foria", means
"diarrhea" and the word "foire", or "fair", eventually came to be used
figuratively as a place where disorder and confusion reign. "Faire la foire"
in contemporary French means to abandon oneself to a life of
debauchery.

Don't
miss the "Terms & Expressions" just after the shopping section
below...

At the French Winegrowers' Fair in London, the participants were
looking defeated. Fluorescent lighting added to the pasty pallor that we wore
on our faces like death... that is: the death of wine sales!

Fair goers
just weren't buying. (But, boy--oh boy!--were they ever "trying"! With clinking
glasses and a "slur" in their step, the crowd proceeded to sample... and sip.
"Thanks a lot," they said, the wine in their glasses now spent. "We'll just
have a look around now... and get back to you in a moment."

At a stand in
the next aisle, two sales women wore upside down smiles. I looked over to my
"stand sisters" across the way and they puffed out their lips, commiserating
"Ce n'est pas vrai!"*

By day two the French winegrowers had resorted to
new sales-garnering tactics: one, in the form of a towering, blue-eyed
brunette, and another, via some seductive pâté aux cèpes!*

I glanced
over to our stand sisters across the aisle who, leary of all that, uncorked
their bottles and (glug, glug, glug) mumbled "down with the hatch!"

*
* *

Post note: Thankfully, for Jean-Marc and me, we were saved by a
Francophile coterie.* Many thanks to those of you who responded to our
invitations and, even more, showed up with friends! It was lovely to meet you
all. And thank you for letting us snap your photo. I think we captured most
of your smiling faces (except Misha's!... which reminds me: mille mercis to
Alicia Weston and to Mikhail Kalinichev--our warm and doting hôtes*: I hope
one day to find in me a host as graceful and gallant as
these!

Childrens'
book: "Three French Hens". The three French hens from the familiar Christmas
song are sent by a Parisian lady to her boyfriend, Philippe Renard, in New
York. Alas, the hens wind up in lost mail, and when they can't find Philippe
in the phone book, they think perhaps they should translate his name: Phil
Fox.

Do you know of any related terms and
expressions? Please share them, for all to see, in the comments
box.

Ongoing support from readers like you helps me to continue doing what I love most: sharing vocabulary and cultural insights via these personal stories from France. Your contribution is vivement apprécié! Donating via PayPal is easy when you use the links below. Merci infiniment! Kristi♥ Send $10♥ Send $25♥Send the amount of your choice

"Bonjour, Kristin, I have enjoyed your blog now for a great number of years, watching your children grow up, your moves from house to house, enjoying your stories and photos and your development as a writer. It's way past time for me to say MERCI with a donation to your blog...which I've done today. Bien amicalement!"--Gabrielle

What is poetry? Why can't I always understand it and does it have to rhyme?
The former, are questions that I used to ask myself, and the last ("latter"?
Oh, fancy word!) is something that I am beginning to understand. One thing
that I love about poésie* is that one can (it seems...) break all the rules
of prose... in the name of emotion, or the evoking of it. (Now to figure out
exactly what is "prose": is it always tied to "literary" or can it tie itself
to an old battered fishing pole... and might the words, cast out, be just as
meaningful?

"La poésie est cette
musique que tout homme porte en soi."Poetry is that music that all men carry inside themselves.

~~~~~~~~~~~~Submit your poems &
answers~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Following Shakespeare's example, above, would you
please offer your own definition? That is: would you answer the question
"What is poetry? Qu'est-ce que c'est la poésie?" Perhaps you would prefer to
answer via a poem of your own? Thank you for sharing your thoughts and poésies
in the comments box.

~~~~~~~~~~~~Today's
Word~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~One reminder, before we get to our mot-du-jour... If
you happen to be in or around London on the 21st, 22nd, or 23rd of this
month, then please look for our Domaine Rouge-Bleu stand at the Barbican
Centre (where the French Wine-Growers' Fair will soon be underway)!

*poésie
(po-eh-zee) noun, feminine

: poetry; poem, piece of
poetry

[from the Greek
"poiêsis]

Today's "poem", written and posted last year, is
dedicated to my beautiful niece-by-marriage, Audrey. She is French and she is
a student of linguistics in Verona, Italy. Though she has always been fond of
language (especially Italian!), she is beginning to fall in love with writing
(a gift, I believe, that sheinherited from her mother,
Marie-Françoise*).

(photo: that's my daughter, Jackie, on the left, and Audrey on the right)

A word about the following "words": I scribbled down
the first several stanzas as they echoed through my mind during the car ride
home from the Italian "foot hills" or "pied mont." Not wanting to forget even
one savory scene, the rest of the poem was conjured up as soon as we arrived
home.

"WRITE IT DOWN!"

Write it down while it is fresh in your
mind, fresh as the hand-grated parmesan that falls over scalding hot
risotto.

Write it down while it is thick, thick as the brouillard* that
covers a patchwork of grapevines on the rolling hills of northern Italy in
December.

Write it down while it is still chattering, like the wrinkled
signores' "Bene! bene!" in the town square at Monforte d'Alba.

Write
it down while it is strong, strong as the ink-black espresso that fills half
a demitasse* at Marco's place in Alba.

Write it down while it is pouring,
like the olive oil my husband splashes onto his plate for bread-dipping while
waiting for the antipasti.

Write it down while it flows, like red
Dolcetto* from an uncorked bottle.

Write it down while it is dark, like
the winter sky above the foothills in the Piedmont.

Write it down
while it is hot, hot as the bagna cauda* that bathes the yellow roasted
peppers and halved onions in Renza's kitchen.

Write it down while it is
passionate, like the lovers' quarrel that silences an entire Italian cantina
but for the flailing lips of one fiery Franco-American couple.

Write
it down while it is fizzing like sparkling water, now swallowed (along with a
bit of pride and an apology), at a pizza dive on the outskirts of
Bra.

Write it down while it is funny, like the name of the Italian town
above.

Write it down while it is sensual, like the lips of the kissing
Italians. (Why do they call the twirling of tongues "French kissing"? You've
not seen kissing until you've seen Italian kissing!)

Write it down
while it is crisp, like the cotton sheets at Alberto's bed and breakfast in
Castiglione Falletto.

Write it down before it is gone, never to return,
like cappuccino foam at the bottom of a cup. Pop...pop...pop....
Poof!

* * *More
stories... (and even a poem!) in my book, below. Thank you for picking up
a copy at your local bookstore or online!

Ongoing support from readers like you helps me to continue doing what I love most: sharing vocabulary and cultural insights via these personal stories from France. Your contribution is vivement apprécié! Donating via PayPal is easy when you use the links below. Merci infiniment! Kristi♥ Send $10♥ Send $25♥Send the amount of your choice

"Bonjour, Kristin, I have enjoyed your blog now for a great number of years, watching your children grow up, your moves from house to house, enjoying your stories and photos and your development as a writer. It's way past time for me to say MERCI with a donation to your blog...which I've done today. Bien amicalement!"--Gabrielle

Inspired by the scene above (photo taken in Villedieu), this edition is
devoted entirely to green! Today we are focusing on recycling and we are
sharing tips on how to be eco-friendly. Please don't hesitate to send in your
ideas & eco experiences, via the comments box, for all to see (and
use!). Also, don't forget to take today's "green poll", just below.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Events~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~If you happen to be
in or near London this Friday, Saturday, or Sunday, then Jean-Marc and I
would really love to see you at the Barbican Centre--where we'll be
participating in the French Winegrowers Fair. It is not too late to get
free tickets to this event. Click this link for more
information.

~~~~~~~~~Domaine
Rouge-Bleu... in Portland!~~~~~~~~"Un air de Provence" (Mistral) has arrived
in Portland, OR! You will find our latest wine release at PastaWorks. Email
Peter peter@pastaworks.com or call
the stores to make sure they have some "Mistral" : Hawthorne: 503 232 1010 -
City Market : 503 221 3002

Up until last month, there was this nagging guilt that seized
me each and every time I headed toward the trash can, plastic, glass, or
carton in hand.

Ever see a film in slow motion? That's how the would-be
recyclable trash fell: lentement.* Those cartons of milk, jam jars, tin cans
of corn, and plastic shampoo bottles eventually tumbled to a halt at the top
of the trash heap...and if I listened to their silent screams on the way
down--instead of covering my ears in denial--this is what the earth-clogging
containers said: "Aïe!"*

That's right: "Ouch! You are hurting the
Earth."

If our household underwent a lapse in recycling, this was partly
due to logistics. We'd moved to a new French town, where the municipal
recycling bins were...well, just where were they? Eventually, we learned the
where, when, and how of the way things work around here... it was just a matter
of re-organization... and the will to recycle.

Now that we're back on the
recycling track, I find it helps keep motivation levels up when we maintain
an open dialogue about déchets... This morning at the breakfast table, I
asked my children for "green tips," or "les astuces écologiques". Here are
the first things that came to their mind.

1. trier*2. prendre une
douche au lieu d'un bain*3. aller en velo*

Can you help add to this
list? Please share your "astuces", or ideas, on how to "go green!" Thank you
for using the comments box so that we might all
profiter.*

Read the rest of the lyrics, below. Video tip: if the sound is garbled or staticky adjust the volume!

PS:
If anyone would like to volunteer to translate the lyrics... then thank you
for sharing your English version via the comments box! Update: Thank you Leslie, for translating this song! If this link doesn't work, then scroll down through the comments for Leslie's English version.

Ongoing support from readers like you helps me to continue doing what I love most: sharing vocabulary and cultural insights via these personal stories from France. Your contribution is vivement apprécié! Donating via PayPal is easy when you use the links below. Merci infiniment! Kristi♥ Send $10♥ Send $25♥Send the amount of your choice

"Bonjour, Kristin, I have enjoyed your blog now for a great number of years, watching your children grow up, your moves from house to house, enjoying your stories and photos and your development as a writer. It's way past time for me to say MERCI with a donation to your blog...which I've done today. Bien amicalement!"--Gabrielle

Did you know that the French word for caterpillar ("la chenille")
comes from the Latin word for "little dog"*? Talk about a colorful
imagination! Makes you wonder whether those ancient wordsmiths weren't fond of
absinthe*? For, just how many of us can see the resemblance between a leggy
larva and man's best friend?

Let's have a look and judge (a bit more
soberly than those Latin language lushes) for ourselves:

Leggy Larva... and Man's Best Friend

One smacking similarity would be
those accoutrements (here, "Dotty"* is sporting painted toenails and Braise
(brez) wears her Halloween mask).

Another connection that we will make
today, between a potential papillon* and a pretty pooch, is an inspirational
one. Although dogs are often the "muse" for artists, a favorite subject to draw
and to paint, here at French Word Central, we prefer your run-of-the-mill
"underdog" as uber-muse: la chenille!(More about this, in a
minute... and no offense to Braise-The-Dog!).

And finally: fur! Note the "coat" on the subject in photo
number two. Stay with me now... It would seem "hair" is the connection
between a dog and a caterpillar. Ever seen a hairy caterpillar? Voilà, there
you have it! That's all it took for those word winos of yesteryear, those
"let's name a worm after a dog" intelligentsia, to connect the hairy dots.
Whether or not they had "hair of the dog"* the next morning (after a wild
night of wordsmithing) is anyone's guess.

Back to connecting the
dots... and to our Dot (remember her?) in today's gallery. Mille mercis to
the artists who submitted their renditions of our sweet (chauve*...)
chenille. To see The Dot Vernissage, click here.

PS:
I almost forgot to post today's word... and I swear the near-oubli*
wasn't due to partying with the language lushes last night.

Still with
us? Why not read about Henry John "Harry" Patch : at 110-years-old he is "the
last surviving British soldier to have fought in the trenches of the Western
Front during the First World War, and one of just two trench combatants still
alive." Don't miss this profile and read his moving remark, made at Flanders
war cemetery: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Harry_Patch

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~References~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~"little
(female) dog" = "petite chienne" from the Latin "canicula"; absinthe = a
liquor flavored with anis and herbs, such as wormwood. Some claim it has
an hallucinatory effect; Dotty = a French caterpillar from
Châteauneuf-du-Pape;
le papillon (m) = butterfly; hair of the dog = refers to an alcoholic drink
that one consumes, the day after getting "cuite" (or plastered), in an
attempt to diminish the effects of a hangover (also known as a good excuse
for another drink early in the day!); chauve = bald; un oubli (m) =
oversight

Ongoing support from readers like you helps me to continue doing what I love most: sharing vocabulary and cultural insights via these personal stories from France. Your contribution is vivement apprécié! Donating via PayPal is easy when you use the links below. Merci infiniment! Kristi♥ Send $10♥ Send $25♥Send the amount of your choice

"Bonjour, Kristin, I have enjoyed your blog now for a great number of years, watching your children grow up, your moves from house to house, enjoying your stories and photos and your development as a writer. It's way past time for me to say MERCI with a donation to your blog...which I've done today. Bien amicalement!"--Gabrielle

Cruisin' through the Tuscan Vauclusian countryside yesterday... My husband still gives me driving lessons (from the passenger seat). I tell him I've been behind the wheel for 23 years. Apparently, says he, it's time to learn to shift gears.

Conduire

(kohn-dweer)

verb

to drive.

In the winter of 2001, I left work at the vineyard each night to drive myself to driving school, careful to take the back roads and to park several blocks from the Auto-École Rivière. Though I had driven for ten years in the States, and another six in France, I had failed to exchange my Arizona driver's license for a French one, having had two years to do so. Time and again, Jean-Marc assured me that I had the right to drive in France (convinced that my AAA International Driving Permit was enough, never mind the expiration date), until one day he realized that his wife was driving without insurance (!!!); that is, should she get into an accident, the insurance contract would be void ($$$) without her having a French permis de conduire.

Having spent weeknights at driving school, attending class with would-be motorists half my age, and having finally passed l'épreuve théorique, or written exam, in the town of Fréjus, I would soon be navigating the streets of Draguignan... with a stone-faced inspecteur seated beside me.

On exam day, I shared the test vehicle with a wide-eyed eighteen-year-old who had just been ordered to pull over and get out. "Out! You are a danger to yourself and to others!" the inspecteur shouted. Seated in the back of the car, waiting my turn, I tried to understand just what my unfortunate classmate had done wrong, but was jolted out of my pensées when the inspector resumed his tirade.

"FAILED!" the inspecteur barked. He shouted a few more insults before the French kid got into the back of the car, at which point I was ordered into the driver's seat: "A vous, madame!"

"Allez-y!" the inspecteur commanded, checking his watch. I said a prayer to Saint Christopher, patron saint of safe travel (not knowing who the saint was for driver's-exam scoring), put on the left-turn signal, and drove out of the quiet neighborhood into the chaotic streets of Draguignan at rush hour.

"You don't need to be so obvious!" the inspector snapped when I threw my chin left after turn-signaling. Moments ago I'd signaled a right turn and thrown my chin over my right shoulder for good measure. We had been warned in driving school to exaggerate our gestures during testing to show the inspecteur that we were aware of those dangerous "angles morts" or blind spots. "Et les vitesses!" the inspector grumbled after I'd ground the gears once again. "Oh, but aren't cars automatic in America?!" he snickered.

Though I had been stick-shifting for sixteen years, seated next to the inspecteur I felt like I was operating a vehicle for the first time. Having completed the twenty-minute parcours through the center of Draguignan, where the unpredictable French pedestrian is king and capable of jumping from sidewalk to street center in the blink of an eye, I followed the inspecteur's instructions, pulling up in front of the American cemetery, which seemed like a bad omen to me. The inspecteur sat silently, filling out paperwork, before announcing it was time to check my vision. He ordered me to read the sign across the street. Squinting my eyes, I began:

"World War II Rhone American Cemetery and Memor...".

Before I had even finished reading, the inspector scribbled something across the page, tore off the sheet, and mumbled "Félicitations."

Ornery as he was, I had the urge to throw my arms around the inspecteur and plant a kiss beside his angry brow; only, the commandant was no longer facing me, but looking out over the quiet green fields dotted white with courage, lost in another place and time.

FYI:A remembrance poem was posted yesterday, "Poppy Day", don't miss it. Also: a reminder to UK readers: Jean-Marc and I will be at Barbican Centre in London, next week. We would love to meet you there. Click here for more information about this event.

Ongoing support from readers like you helps me to continue doing what I love most: sharing vocabulary and cultural insights via these personal stories from France. Your contribution is vivement apprécié! Donating via PayPal is easy when you use the links below. Merci infiniment! Kristi♥ Send $10♥ Send $25♥Send the amount of your choice

"Bonjour, Kristin, I have enjoyed your blog now for a great number of years, watching your children grow up, your moves from house to house, enjoying your stories and photos and your development as a writer. It's way past time for me to say MERCI with a donation to your blog...which I've done today. Bien amicalement!"--Gabrielle

The following is Jean Pariseau's translation of the famous war remembrance poem, In Flanders Fields, by Canadian Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae. McCraie, a field surgeon during the First World War, wrote the poem after seeing his friend killed during the Second Battle of Ypres.

The poppy of wartime remembrance is the red corn poppy, Papaver rhoeas, a common weed of Europe. The red poppy was one of the few plants that grew on the Western Front; its seeds wait patiently for years, for disturbance and cool weather - conditions well met in the soil of intensively-shelled battlefields of France.

World War I catalyzed important technological innovations that changed forever the patterns of daily life and urban landscape - an era we call 'The Modern Age'.

The battlefields of France continue to disgorge an ungodly crop: soldierly remains, rusting guns, spent and still-dangerous live munitions, and personal effluvia of military life in the trenches.

It is good to think on the significance of the humble red poppy and all that it portends, when lives and lands are permanently altered through disturbance."

Ongoing support from readers like you helps me to continue doing what I love most: sharing vocabulary and cultural insights via these personal stories from France. Your contribution is vivement apprécié! Donating via PayPal is easy when you use the links below. Merci infiniment! Kristi♥ Send $10♥ Send $25♥Send the amount of your choice

"Bonjour, Kristin, I have enjoyed your blog now for a great number of years, watching your children grow up, your moves from house to house, enjoying your stories and photos and your development as a writer. It's way past time for me to say MERCI with a donation to your blog...which I've done today. Bien amicalement!"--Gabrielle

Monsieur is climbing up the restanque* that separates his potager* from the outskirts of our property. I hold out my hand to assist him but he waves it away impatiently.

"Bahhhh! I'm not dead yet."

Monsieur will turn 89 on November 14th. His white hair is neatly trimmed and he is wearing a black sweater with a geometric motif; the darkness highlights his handsome features and I want to tell him how good, indeed handsome, he looks but something tells me that wouldn't be appropriate.

Monsieur makes it up to the next level, where the lawn is green and dotted here and there with flowers.

"Des soucis?" says he, still chuckling, as if the marigold that he is pointing to is wearing a cream pie on its "face". Monsieur is not so much laughing at the flowers in our yard... as he is at the newbie countrywoman whose family sowed them.

I look across our lawn, to the yellow and gold flowers that have popped up in the last month. It is interesting how the colors of the flowers mimic the autumn tones in the field beyond. I notice how the purple and blue flowers of spring and summer have disappeared completely (apart from the violet-colored "cosmos"). I am amazed to have flowers at all, and my gardening good intentions are reignited, never mind Monsieur's doubts.

"Pas de soucis!"* I answer, offering up a play on words and a joke all rolled into one. Monsieur laughs... the way one might laugh at city slickers.

It has been one year and four months since my husband moved our family to this "petit trou perdu"* as friends are wont to call it. But, far from being discouraged, we fall in love with the countryside a little bit more each day... not that we know the secrets of gardening or of farming. But we are learning and our "findings" never cease to amaze us.

"Findings" such as those little, cranberry-sized "bulbs" (I think they are...) that I found this morning, cleaving to the mama plant like sucklings.

"What are you doing over there?" Monsieur asks, and I imagine he's expecting a good laugh."Planting muscari!"* I anwer with pride--and in stride, this time."Muscari?" he questions, and that cynical snickering of his returns.

He should talk. For a countryman he sure can't name flowers--and he's no Monsieur Farjon (my other venerable voisin,* a.k.a. "The Herbal Don Juan"). I show Mr. Delhomme the great clump of dirt that I have "fished" out of a big flower pot, having been amazed at all the "baby" bulbs that now surrounded it. I got the little bunch of grape-colored flowers at the outdoor market last year, excited to learn that it wasn't too late to plant bulbs (that is, if you bought the kind that come with flowers "attached".), and plant them I did: the "easy way" (by sticking them in the nearest, unencumbered pot). This time, I am doing things the right way: planting those secondary bulbs in good ground. Specifically, I am targeting those brown, empty patches along the lawn, hoping to see ink-blue flowery clusters in their place, come springtime.

Monsieur has a good laugh at all this "nonsense" going on, up in our yard before he offers some farmerly advice:

"Fraises!"* Plant a row here!, just one row--all along the edge. He tells me that one of the prior owners had planted strawberries and melons... before heading to Syria during the war.

It occurs to me that Monsieur has lived through a world war (nearly two, in fact...) and so it's no wonder that he laughs at flowers. What good are hyacinths where hungry exists? When the village shops were closing during WWII and food was scarce, Monsieur and his family had grain fields. The oven at Monsieur's home was fired up and feeding the family (and some of the town's unfortunates) fresh loaves of bread.

I toss my clump of baby bulbs aside, but only for the moment, and invite Monsieur to taste my husband's new rosé.* Wine, I guessed, was another thing a farmer with foresight might enjoy during the war. Whether or not, like flowers, it is an "essential" is, essentially, up to one's tastes.

Ongoing support from readers like you helps me to continue doing what I love most: sharing vocabulary and cultural insights via these personal stories from France. Your contribution is vivement apprécié! Donating via PayPal is easy when you use the links below. Merci infiniment! Kristi♥ Send $10♥ Send $25♥Send the amount of your choice

"Bonjour, Kristin, I have enjoyed your blog now for a great number of years, watching your children grow up, your moves from house to house, enjoying your stories and photos and your development as a writer. It's way past time for me to say MERCI with a donation to your blog...which I've done today. Bien amicalement!"--Gabrielle

Listen to today's word and hear it in
context via four French headlines, at the end of this
letter...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Le COURRIER ~
LETTERS

Get ready for your heart to leap out with affection for one
feisty French femme in today's story, sent in by word-a-day reader James
Wilson.*

James writes:

Kristen,I know that you are busy right
now with the enviable task of wine making... yum!... so there is certainly no
need to respond to this, even when you start getting caught back up.

I
just thought I would share a quick tale with you. When I was studying for
my Master's Degree in France, I interviewed a fair number of elder Normand
women out at Courseulles-sur-Mer and Banville. One of my "subjects" was a
woman who was roughly 35 years old when D-Day happened in 1944. Since I was
there 50 years after the fact to talk with her, she was only about 64 years
my senior! Marie, as she was called, took a great liking to me and invited
me with regularity that year. We got to be great chums, really, and she
insisted that I use the "tu" form of the verb with her. One day, her five
daughters got caught up in the stories she had been telling me, and that I
was judiciously leaking out to them--many she had never shared with any of
them. So they organized a big diner for the family and many of the town's
people so that I could get Marie talking with everyone there.

When I
started talking with Marie in the "tu" form, one of her eldest
daughters protested, rather publicly, hoping to embarrass me into conforming
to the rules of talking with women in their 80s. Marie, stood up and said,
"Well, my American boyfriend and I can just continue to do these interviews
in private if you like! I told him to use the "tu" form with me because it
makes me feel good--young again--and because he reminds me of all the young
men that stayed at this farm as they passed through 50 years ago. If you
weren't so rude, you'd be using the tu form with him also!"

The
daughters shut up for sure with that. We had a little more wine, calmed down
and I went back to asking my questions. 4 of the daughters continued
after that day to "tutoyie" me, where that fifth one who had put back in her
place obstinately refused.

I love dealing with elderly people on a
personal level. Now that Marie is gone to her final resting place, I miss my
"French girlfriend".

James

***Read about James, Marie's
soi-disant "American boyfriend" in the following bio,* and check out the
wonderful caption that goes with the photo that he shares with us. And if you
enjoyed his story, please be sure to respond to it via the comments box. If
you prefer to contact James directly, here's his email address: jamesrwilson
[AT] charter.net

*James Wilson, professor of French and Spanish,
studied under the auspices of Middlebury College and the Language Schools.
When James isn't teaching, he enjoys gardening at his lakeside home, and his
other current task, writing a history for his hometown in
Maine.

[Photo caption]Marie Chirot, my friend, is on the the left
sporting her blue cardigan over a house dress, a cane and pantoufles. My
Courseullaise friend Andree Harivel and I had walked from Courseulles-sur-Mer
along the beach to Gray-sur-Mer, where there is a lovely monument to the
D-Day landings, and an old 'char' (WWII tank) named 'One Charlie', and then
headed inland to Banville where Marie lived. We caught up with Marie at her
home on Rue du Molot and were quickly recruited to go and fetch some 'herbes'
to feed her hungry 'lapins' who resided in a cage in the courtyard of her
farm. I loved helping her feed those rabbits because their cage was right in
front of an area of the 'cour' where young soldiers had etched their dog tag
id numbers on the wall, permanent reminders written in the 'vielles pierres'
of friends and saviors who had once visited Marie's
farm.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Extra Credit~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~=> Look for
French words in the above column (beginning at the column title "Le Courrier / Letters") and post your translations in the comments
box.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Homework ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~"Petite Amie" in the French
News: help translate these headlines. Post your answers in the comments
box: You may also listen to the word of the day and all four headlines here: Download petite_amie.wav. Download petite_amie.mp3"Lewis Hamilton félicité en images par sa petite amie"
--Kelbogos.com, Belgium

Ongoing support from readers like you helps me to continue doing what I love most: sharing vocabulary and cultural insights via these personal stories from France. Your contribution is vivement apprécié! Donating via PayPal is easy when you use the links below. Merci infiniment! Kristi♥ Send $10♥ Send $25♥Send the amount of your choice

"Bonjour, Kristin, I have enjoyed your blog now for a great number of years, watching your children grow up, your moves from house to house, enjoying your stories and photos and your development as a writer. It's way past time for me to say MERCI with a donation to your blog...which I've done today. Bien amicalement!"--Gabrielle

BONJOUR. Je m'appelle Kristi. I write to you weekly from our home in France. Each post is created for maximum French learning. My stories and books are sprinkled with useful vocabulary and provide insights into real French life. Enjoy each quick, educational read--sign up here

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